Big "Siss"

A few weeks ago I tumbled into Sissinghurst. Tangled, jangled at odds with myself. I cursed my own stupidity, it was a warm mid-summerish mid-morning and I tipped up with coach loads of Garden Tours...literally coach chaos! And still, amidst the thrumming Big "Siss" delivered!


In the arched brick entrance, notes from the head gardener written onto a slate with single blooms arranged in a lovely  wooden stand. Terracotta pots labeled in chalk...simple and honest, I make a mental note to do this myself...instead of a gift tag.You can read more from the gardeners here.

Garden and buildings converge at Sissinghurst to create a beautiful English symphony of brickwork, oak timbers, hung tiles all festooned with foliage and flower. They heighten one another.

I saw something of Vita in this statuesque visitor, perfectly attired visitor.

Heady? Yes! I scuttled away from the madding crowd and headed for the giant archway wondering how Adam Nicolson and Sarah Raven had progressed their vision of reinstating the kitchen garden. The view through is bucolic indeed...

A walk past a meadow brimful with sweet grass and dozing lambs brings me to a fully formed and large kitchen garden with flowers for cutting...hooray...

 

Just glorious to see big Siss looking so fantastic!

 I consider Sissinghurst the elder sister to my other favourite gardens Great Dixter and of course Perch Hill.

My head is swirling with iris and rose scented joy...summertime breezes whisper in my ear.

Inhaling deeply I head for home.

~x~

Mown and Grown

The long days yawn ahead. 

Long and lazy. 

Pyjama clad, Croc footed I head for the fields with the lark and Boodle.

First stop the Cowshed, new doors fresh paint! 

Actually re-claimed doors but let's not quibble it's too early...

The fields are humming already. Choirs of insects sing ~ the grasses sway. The dew drops balance like pearls of sweat, the flowers tangle with the grass, no-one is sure who came with who to this dance.

Where the field runs into the garden fringes it seems to be beckoning the roses, "go wild!"

And the long day yawns ahead. 

~~~

The fields are "half-cut!" Drowsy and swoon inducing is the scent of a fallen wildflower meadow. Sorrel, Sweet Vernal, Birdsfoot Trefoil, Tufted Vetch, Clover, seeds and husks all jumbled like a giant bowl of nature's pot-pourri. It smells so sweet...honeydew, golden mead. I think it may be the greatest tea I'll never taste. The tractor drowns out the insects. Cutting long into the evening and the dark.

 Dusk is purple and gold. I head for the fields with Sauvignon and Boodle.

We yawn, the long day stretches behind us. 

Food for the winter.

 ~~~

I suspect I am talking to myself, but should you happen upon this post "Hello! Hello!"

I have been, and continue to be "here" Down the Lane. We are building a new piece of Lane which, whilst exciting, is also utterly terrifying and consuming. I promise to share all with you once we are respectable! In the meantime sending summery greetings or winter greetings to my Faraway friends!

 ~x~

 PS If you are interested in finding out more about native grasses and meadow flowers, The Wildlife Trust is an excellent resource.